The Little Candleboy
by Sunpops1
Summary: A Steampunk/Dystopian au with KarJohn/JohnKat.
John woke up early as he always did, annoyingly early, at the butt-crack of dawn, but he was used to it.

He'd had another dream, sharp yellow nails, sharp teeth, orange horns, then grey skin, and, he took a sharp breath downing some water from a glass he'd started keeping on his bedside table along with his glasses that he pushed up on his face right afterwards. he had that dream again.

Trolls, what an odd subject, he couldn't tell you much about them, he'd never even met one, he just knew they existed.

It wasn't worth waking up at five in the morning to be able to see the sunrise, as it was only clouded over with grey because of the pungent pollution induced smog, he just had somewhere to be, something to do. The sunrise was like when you bleached jeans, bland, and there were no stars, they'd faded from view long ago by their blatant over usage of artificial light. Definitely no reason to wake up for beauty.

Too much, too much, they drove away nature with blinking artificial lights and grey smog.

Though the town was pretty, gleaming, shining gold, where the pale light hit said gears, a small line of government built shops filled with gears, and families who just wanted get by, because they had to pay so much to keep that government built property.

He pulled on a jacket from his closet, a blue one, same as everything else he wore, old, worn, but handled with care. It was better than what a big majority of the poor population wore, they all had overalls and denim jackets and goggles and things that John couldn't pull off in his stick limbed awkwardness. While the more aristocratic of society would frown upon it greatly, they were the rare and rich, and assholes, but it was nice compared to what most other's attire.

People liked him to look nice, neat, it pleased them, yes, them, more than himself, people always wanted engineers to look nice, they were something people aspired to be, engineers had something to offer, they could help people, they could grow wealthy.

Not him.

He pulled off his sweatpants and on came the black trousers, baggy and bleached down around his feet he rolled the legs up a couple of times, he pulled on black braces over his shoulders and snapped then into place with a golden buckle. It was what he always wore, jacket, trousers, braces, but he was used to doing things over and over again, repetition, and redundancy, was a common in his life, an annoying one.

Though he couldn't remember when he last wore this jacket, this particular one that smelled of daises and lilac suspiciously like Rose, maybe he'd let the blonde haired girl borrow it at some point, he couldn't remember. But for himself he could of worn it a year ago, he could've worn it Yesterday, it didn't matter, and he couldn't remember.

He was alone, no one to remind him of anything but himself, and care was a fleeting, unnecessary sense of emotion now, because he didn't care, didn't have anything to care about.

Out of habit he called out good morning when he ascended the stairs and down to the kitchen, he was only answered by a mellow intake of silence's breath though. Empty halls, empty walls, and floors, and deafening silence, and a breath, and, then, empty, nothing. Nothing.

There used to be a time when the walls were alive, the house was like a being, filled with passion, when his dad was still here, and now, he wasn't; he was gone. It was so lonely, in this big empty house that he used to call his home, baited breath, inhale, exhale, nothing.

He's been thinking of his dad a-lot lately, but today, the thought seemed heavier on his mind, he blinked, something, there was something, he couldn't place.

Cakes. God he hated sweet foods, he wasn't a fan of desserts, he could eat them, but light ones never too much, he didn't have much of a sweet tooth. But his dad, he made so many goddamn cakes, each one better and more flamboyant then the last. All the rich icing, and fluffy bites of cream, and, oh god, his dad had to exclaim how he was just so goddamn proud of him.

Nothing. No reply, empty, house not a home, and now it was empty, but there was something, he didn't remember.

He thought of layers, and candles, bright dancing flames, and flavor, and fun, and passion, then a big toothy smile, tobacco pipe, his gentlemanly dapper hat, then his dad's crinkling eyes. Then he thought of flat, and the stuffed away candles never to be lit, all the years sitting away in cabinets in this house. Not a home, and then bleak, and void, and the hurt frown.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, black-brown, cheap, just add hot water, sludge into a chipped mug. He drank it black, letting it burn down his throat and settle, maybe to bring his thoughts away from the unopened years stuffed in corners, and, nothing, empty, void.

He vaguely recognized he was crying now, hiccups, sobs, sniffles, ripping themselves from his throat, hot burning tears that he couldn't stop and were searing his skin off, he only realized though when a big hiccup overtook him and he choked on the slime in his mouth and…something.

And, nothing, void, instance, sadness, sludge, tears, a normal morning; for him at least. A normal morning filled with depression and all that goddamned smog at his window.

He only slightly acknowledged the pile of letters near the door, presumably put there the night before by the mail drone, they were from the three sparse friends he had, then one from his cousin, one from his half-sister, and he knew what they were, letters of worry. He hadn't replied in a long time, just wallowing in self-misery, the letters were always them asking for him to come out to the lower cities, somewhere new, and fun, and he wanted to go so bad, but, Too safe, too scared, this was John, this is him

He'd never brought himself to read them, but he couldn't steel up the effort to throw them away, so, next best thing, hide them, hide the evidence, another cabinet, and godforsaken cabinet filled with sadness, and, man, he was useless. He fit them where he could between the piping under the sink, fill every crevice with his fear, pour it all out into this house, not a /

The stack in the cabinet was getting pretty high.

He didn't brush his hair, he let the black curls bounce anyway they wanted and the unruly spikes have their free will, he took a couple knots out with his fingers but that was all. He brushed his teeth thoroughly though, and splashed his face with water trying in vain to clean out his pores from dust that whirled through the city, the city was varied everywhere you went, but no matter where you could enjoy the golden shine and glimmer, and creamy tapestry and hues of teal and royal blue, and, beautiful.

As wondrous as it was it didn't stop the politicians and conning businessmen and gang violence, and underhand dealings, and poverty. Gross city, grimy city, filled with factories and gleaming gold to hide the filth of all the lies. Filled with technology you make to break, but he'd fix it, he'd upgrade it so it didn't fail.

That's how he made a living.

He was an engineer, while he could've he did not start a factory, he did make a life-changing invention. Or, really, it never came to life, just blueprints, tucked away somewhere, filled with hopes and dreams that would be trapped within the wooden walls of this house forever. He didn't have the supplies, the money or the motivation to do it, he was useless.

He stepped out into the crisp air as he pulled on his yellow sneakers, those type that had long backs and tongues and you had to spend fifteen minutes lacing them on every morning, he pulled them on and started to lace, over, over, over, again, again, and while they were annoying the end result of perfect fitting sneakers was nice, not that he deserved them or they looked good on his dorky self, but, they were comfortable.

The town started to light up, machines started to whirl, started to hum for the day, and clank, and it was the one good thing about the city, it was full of life, full to the brim with this wondrous natural noise.

Then he looked to the clock, it was six in the morning he'd still make it and- oh.

Something. Something sweet, something bitter, something lost that should've stayed that way.

April, April thirteenth, candles cakes, presents, and his birthday his goddamn birthday, but there was no one to remind him, he was alone, left alone to wallow in the self-pity that washed over him like a tidal wave, and, he just wanted someone.

He knew he had friends, who had left the letters, and that's why there were so many, usually there was one a day from different people, letters he'd never read, he'd never even see, because he was a coward.

Glass and snow crunched under his knees as he fell down, he didn't cry his tears were spent, just the spiral of everlasting misery that overtook him shook him from his core and with each breath he shuddered and his throat closed up and he choked on his breath.

He wanted his dad, he just wanted some cake.

It was deep breaths in and out, in, out, inhale, exhale, and breath, relax, and breathe. Sighing, he brushed off the glass from his knees probably left over from last night, as he walked off he saw some cleaning droid go over and pick it up, starting its daily rounds.

Robots started to whizz around him, slowly and only a few at first, but as time passed there were more coming bye, after cleaning up from last night they went and returned to their storage slots, turning off and eyes going cold, dead.

There were more different types of robots, mechanical animals running around flying around, built with care and delicacy with complicated and beautiful steadiness and they're like magnificent puzzles; but regular animals were better, they'd drove them all away because humans, humans are too much they take, and take, and they never could give back.

His shop, a family owned shop that he inherited from your father, and he had inherited it from his mother, your nanna, and so on and so forth. It was one shop that wasn't bright, and gold, and shiny.

It was rustic, and antique, built with dark wood and spindly decorated windows, curtains draped over the doors, and a small wind chime was over the door and with every swing it would sound like sweet little bells and crystals, there was other wood too, in fact an array of different types from cherry to mahogany and then some birch and more he couldn't name.

It had the smell of cinnamon, and tobacco. There was this waft every time someone opened the door of oil, grease, ash, heightened with a small electrical buzz, the original rush of pleasant smells would end with a hint, and an aftertaste (aftersmell?) of freshly cut wood. It smelled like hard work, and years of it, honor, kindness, first kisses, and everything in the past his ancestors would've enjoyed, vodka, and beer, and this kick of champagne, cologne, deep cut emotions, and stories, he liked his store because it wasn't like his house, it still held so much in the old walls.

Stories, and years, ingrained in these walls.

In utopia.

Yes, utopia, the name of his shop was utopia, the most ironic possible name there could be in this universe, this fucked up town.

He took a deep breath and unlocked the small oak door of his shop, he pulled it open and let it push away the water crystals of snow that had accumulated an packed in front of it. No droid came to this street, the government stayed away from his shop. He didn't know why, but he had a bit of a suspicion it was because he had happened to fix weapons for one Jack Noir, the leader of the midnight crew, thick corded muscles, strong jaw, short, but easily strong enough and had enough influence to hurt the military badly.

Too bad he was an idiot, got his guns and arm fixed up at his shop, and on several occasions he had to fix up his cane as well with the mediocre wood whittling skills he had. He just had this sneaking suspicion that's why people never hurt his shop; and he knew why Jack came here when he had a mechanic in his gang.

John was a pity case.

He walked in flipping the sign on the door to open and ready to start the /

Business was usually a steady flow at his shop, he was the only person people could afford to fix their machines with, he's gained reputation from his father and the history of his shop, he'd worked here alone since he was seventeen, and people pitied him, because they knew that the reason he couldn't rip them off was his naivety, his soft, almost broken, breaking heart, that he didn't have it in him to hurt them.

What happened to that kid that just played pranks, well, he saw the world, and, he couldn't handle it.

Though people didn't come much today a couple of people came in the morning and only to pick up their fixed things, today was slow, and boring, He laid down his head slowly on his arms and blinked, then blinked, and blinked heavily, and, darkness.

There was something holding him back, something tight and suffocating.

There was a lick of flames up his cheek, and he flinched.

There was a bright grin full of sharp teeth.

And he knew that person.

That troll.

His hand traveled down to the forgotten hose, it got kicked away, and then the foot crashed into his face.

Hands on his neck.

He had to fight.

Something.

Nothing.

The same dream.

It was late-afternoon when he'd found himself rudely awakened from his sleep once again this time it was a customer, and the small mechanical bunny in her hands, he took it, she paid with a smile, "Sorry I'm here so soon again."

Strange, he didn't remember her.

Another fix, another profit, that's all it was to him.

Mid-afternoon he found himself cleaning his shop. It wasn't big and it wasn't small, well, actually fairly small, it had a desk near the front and various scraps and paper littered everywhere across the ground, his counter situated in the back.

There were the small little trinkets people dropped off for him to fix lining shelves, some partially fixed and some set for people to pick them up with a little tag on the /

He felt bad for all those people who left their trinkets here, they'd forgotten about them. Mostly though he felt bad for the small machines; but he followed family law and never took them for himself, that was just not gentlemanly.

Today he pocketed a small mechanical bird off the shelf, it'd been sitting there for two months after the owner was supposed to pick it up, so, what was the harm?

He knew he was fooling himself.

It was around one in the afternoon it started to rain, around one-thirty it turned quickly into heavy snow, he should've just gone home when it started to rain, but, being the idiot he was decided to stay in the store, by two though, he notices it wouldn't just stop, and now it was too late.

Snow was packed thick around his shop, but the worst was the biting winds and the screeches they brought with them. Fast and whipping it could probably cut your skin if you went outside; so he had to stay inside.

He had started locking up the shop, dropping his curtains and such, because he'd heard of it, trolls coming when this happened, because, after all their skin was tougher, they could stand these winds.

He pulled the curtains across his windows and for a safety measure brought a chair to go in-between the knob and the door. This wasn't his first time in a storm, but it was his first time in a storm while in the store. In the store, in the storm, alone, cold scared.

He sighed deeply, letting the last set of maroon curtains fall down. If possible the wind outside just blew harder and he shivered from the cold, his jacket could only have just so much warmth, and his shop wasn't like the others it wasn't thick and insulated, it was thin and could only hold so much heat and the only thing he had was a small couple of gas burners in the back, he couldn't keep a gas burner on for as long as this storm would obviously take.

He did suffice however with making some hot chocolate and curling up with a patchy blanket in the corner of his counter keeping as warm as he could, out of sight, and away from the wind whistling through the walls.

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself at a particularly bad gust coursing through the shop, shivering. He curled up in the blanket as much as he could.

Soon enough the kettle whistled and he had to leave his man-made cocoon, he kept the blanket slung over his shoulders, and with a mental note to bring some more blankets over to the shop poured himself some cocoa.

Brown, creamy, rich, and that hint of vanilla, not sweet but nice and soothing and warming. He shut off the blue flame watching it cut off in an instant with a small dispersal of /

He took small sips, careful not to burn his mouth with the creamy drink, he rummaged through the shop for another couple of blankets and upon finding them he curled up in them leaving his hands free just enough to hold the small chipped mug in his hands.

He sighed into the cup, there was then steam coming up and rising from it fogging up his glasses. The storm whipped outside. He spared it another look.

Then there was an ear-splitting crack.

Like he'd never heard before a boom rippled into his ears and he held them in pain, almost dropping his mug in the process, but luckily only managed to splash some of the piping hot liquid on his jacket and blankets, which elicited another set of yelps to tumble out, he quickly got out of the burning blankets which had luckily absorbed most of the liquid before it got to his /

He held the mug close, waiting for something else, and then…silence.

Then he slowly drowned out the sound of the winds, then, then, there was something, he heard it, small far away yells and footsteps and they were getting closer.

The strong winds were his only company, and he didn't dare look outside.

He gulped down the last couple chugs of his cocoa but didn't even want to chance getting up to get more, he just wanted to stay here, just stay curled up in this corner behind this counter, because then he was hiding, and that was all he was good at.

He pulled the blankets back over himself, ignoring the small wet stains, he tried to ignore all his thoughts of politics, and self-misery, and trolls, and dreams, and candles, and all of his hiding fear, all his hiding pain stuffed away, and he knew, somehow he just knew those were trolls, and this was how he'd die.

They were so close, loud sharp footsteps and voices muffled by the wind, sharp and something he doubted he'd understand even it he could hear it, it was a foreign /

He bit his lip and pulled his body tighter.

There was jiggling at his doorknob then something ramming door, and then it stopped, and there was a large clank as he knew that the knob had just got taken off from the door.

He'd die useless.

Probably today, maybe tomorrow, maybe in fifty years from now but it did not change the fact he would die uselessly; he should do something, he should drive those trolls off but he couldn't bring himself to move as he heard a small chime, his door bells.

And it wasn't a happy sound that welcomed customers it sounded more like a warning call, death's siren. He was going to die, and he couldn't do anything about it, even his curiosity did not bring him to look back to whoever entered, there was only one pair of footsteps approaching inside, there were others, but from the sound of it they were walking off.

He slammed his eyes shut and bit his lip so hard it almost bled, he'd die a useless coward.

There was a step closer and he huddle closer in on himself. He'd die useless, scared, afraid, soft, without enough, and fear hidden away, and no one would know, no one would care, he'd never replied to their letters and they would just accumulate at his door till the government deemed he was dead then the mail bot would just throw them in the incinerator.

Flames, candles.

Oh, god, his dad, his dad, his poor dad, poor John, poor world, poor, poor, he'd die useless.

He looked up, his invader looked down, he saw ugly yellowish brown eyes and then the hand as it wrapped up around his shirt collar, and the dark skin as he saw more of it as he was pulled up to meet the person, the troll, he kept telling himself, that would kill him

He was pulled up to meet the troll's cruel eyes, and the insane smirk.

"Well, well, I told them there would be someone here; those guys never listen do they." The trolls voice was vile and sickly and drawled out his words much akin to a snake, he had a forked tongue too. He was brought to stand but he was still a good head shorter than the troll as it pulled even tighter on his shirt collar making him choke and the troll leaned down to his eye level.

The next time the troll spoke, vile breath was plumed out on his face and he gagged because it was just so disgusting, he tried in vain to pull away, but what could he do?

Weak, useless, John, what could he ever do?

"You're cute too." That's when his fight or flight instincts kicked in tenfold and he struggled as much as his tired body could and turned his face away trying as hard as he could to fight off his attacker, because, while he knew he wasn't cute, or maybe he was to trolls, he didn't know, but there was no way that after saying that this guy only wanted to kill him.

The troll's laugh was more like a series of wheezes, but he could see the toothy smirk turn into an angry scowl easily through his peripheral vision, he kept struggling over his greater judgement though, because, no, he didn't want to die, he didn't want to end it here. He wanted to at least talk to his friends his family, and he'd put that bird back…and…he sobbed in the troll's hold, a body racking, lung quaking sob, but there were no tears, he'd cried all his tears out, he couldn't even use them when he needed too.

He struggle frantically but then he felt himself be pushed back and he tried to run but just as quickly he was pulled forward and his forehead met the troll's and damn did it hurt.

He was thrown back, he hit the wall hard, and then he was pulled forward again, and there it was that vile smirk, those sharp curled horns, those sharp claws digging into his shoulder, and he couldn't move, he was frozen where he stood. Trolls were built for this, to fight, they had weapons on their body, John, John was just a normal person.

And then as the black lips curled up into in even bigger smirk and he leaned down and tilted his head and oh god those sharp teeth were so close to mouth, they were so close to his neck, and his jugular, and…

and...

Crack.

He screamed as his ears exploded in pain, his head was thumping, his heart thumping.

It took him a minute to notice he was lying on the ground, and there was vomit on his fingers, no, it smelled too much like iron to be vomit, it looked more like a puddle of bruised and squished banana, but it was too thin, it was a liquid, it was yellow and brown, and, oh, oh…trolls eye color was the same os their blood wasn't it.

He ignored the ice that pushed itself through his veins, and he slowly got up, eyes following up, across the counter, and down, and oh, oh dear god…br /

He was dead, his ears rung, and suddenly his eyes burned and he felt liquid trail out of them, and down his cheeks and, oh, god, he was dead, and then with self-hatred, misery, and everything combines he did throw up, he heaved it down on the ground and he could've sworn his insides were being pulled out as he did so.

He finally quelled another round of bile from coming up in his throat, as he looked down to the vile eyes of the troll, he quelled his stomach again. Then he saw the gunshot wound, and he looked up, he was trying

to find the person who shot the troll…

To thank them , and he slightly hated himself for that. Because the troll still hadn't done what he was about to do and nothing deserved death, but oh god was he happy he was dead.

In the door stood someone else, tall, grey skinned, sharp nails and teeth, and it was another troll, he was decked out in some kind of black, red, and steel colored trench coat. His eyes caught the others the sharp

Cut rubies, those were not eyes, they were too perfect, too red.

He was about to call out to him in thanks, but the mystery troll growled in warning, there was this moment he could see the utter hatred in the troll's eyes as the red eyed person, no, troll, he kept telling himself that. It turned around, and there was this moment john could see a symbol on it's back like...a couple of misshapen spoons, bent and curved.

And...

The troll was gone.

John had fallen asleep at some point trying to regain his lost body heat, create some kind of warmth with his door gone. He was awoken by someone shaking him, there was a steady reverberating beep, he blinked, and he couldn't open his eyes again.

The next time he awoke the steady beat every few seconds created a sense of rhythm and calm, and he saw someone's face, and then, white, everything was white, he closed his eyes, then everything was dark.

The third time he awoke he was conscious enough to not fall asleep again and propped himself up with a couple of pillows, and then there were a couple of people there that moved like machines with great fluid motions hooking him up, and the steady beep wasn't so steady this time, it was in and out, and wavering, and…black.

Fourth time's the charm, and this time he found himself able to process the sterile smell of a hospital and the bleak white, everything, literally everything.

Then there was a doctor, this time there was only one at his side when he woke up, dark hair, dark eyes, normal as could be, like him. They chatted for a while, she was trying to explain to him just how lucky he was; he was only half-listening.

"Only a few of the older shops were okay, like yours and maybe…two others, I think, a lot of them are wrecked, if not by trolls then by that storm, I swear it came out of nowhere, oh well, maybe not nowhere, it just wasn't predicted until tomorrow." The girl, he read her nametag, Sarah, checked some of his things, jotted down notes and tapped the pen against her bottom lip, and continued talking. "But none of the others had a dead troll in them."

A crack, a bullet, lifeless eyes, he felt bile threaten to rise up but just pushed it down in favor of he wanted to stay first time in conscious thought. He'd felt that, it was at least three days, maybe weeks, …how long?

"So, how do you feel? You had some bad hypothermia, it's a good thing we got you here soon enough, or you would've died."

It was a simple question that entailed many answers from his end, "I'm fine" he choked out, he knew he wasn't. "I feel a bit better." And maybe he did.


End file.
